


Eros and Thanatos

by TheSeaVoices, whiskeyandspite



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: After the Fall, Bathing, Blood, Gore, Hurt/Comfort, Intimacy, M/M, Post S3E13, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-05
Updated: 2019-07-05
Packaged: 2020-06-09 21:19:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19484254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSeaVoices/pseuds/TheSeaVoices, https://archiveofourown.org/users/whiskeyandspite/pseuds/whiskeyandspite
Summary: How often he had imagined this? Never in such great detail, never lingering on the pain before the pleasure of the freedom that came with the death of the Dragon, the end of all things. But he had thought often, awake at ungodly hours, with Hannibal on his mind. He had thought of their first morning after it all. He had thought of their life that no longer needed codes, pretense, acting, anger. He had thought of the first time he would reach out, in this new life, and find familiar heat against his fingers, familiar lips against his own, familiar voice saying -“Will.”After the fall - if it was a fall? - Will cleans up his monster.





	Eros and Thanatos

**Author's Note:**

> When the incredible [TheSeaVoices](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSeaVoices) sends you an image to see if it will inspire you, the answer is always YES. YES IT WILL INSPIRE ME. You incredible human bean, never, ever change.

Will’s hands were shaking.

What little he could see was blurred, lights leaving comet-trails in his vision when he turned his head, or it tilted on its own. He heard Hannibal whisper his name again and instinctively turned towards the sound, towards the soft breath against his face.

“I’m sorry.”

The sharp shock of adrenaline wasn’t painful so much as burning, and Will made a helpless sound of agony as it electrified his nerves, tensed his already tortured body. He hadn’t even felt the syringe go in. But he could see when Hannibal shot himself up with a dose next, now that his pupils had dilated, his mind forced to consciousness again.

They’d spoken of this, of the aftermath, of what would happen once they were away from Jack, away from the FBI, away from anyone who felt they would care at all about them to return and exact revenge. They’d spoken of the unavoidable injuries both would sustain. They’d spoken of the peace that would come with the end of it all.

Will didn’t know which part of his body wasn’t screaming for relief, but he ignored it.

He remembered his mind conjuring up the image of a fall, graceful and fatal, the two of them clinging together in an embrace too strong for even rocks to shatter. He remembered the way Hannibal’s tears had tasted against his tongue as he’d taken them like communion. He remembered nothing of the reality of getting inside, though the smeared blood against the stones and the hardwood suggested it had been a staggered process.

Both of them were losing a lot of blood. Both had injuries that immediately required attention.

“Kitchen,” Hannibal said after a moment, voice tight, but eyes open again, looking past Will. “First cabinet.”

Will went, fingers tacky with blood finding the leather medical bag blind and pulling it towards himself. He kicked it to skid across the floor, followed at a painful half-crawl, dropped his head in Hannibal’s lap.

How often he had imagined this? Never in such great detail, never lingering on the pain before the pleasure of the freedom that came with the death of the Dragon, the end of all things. But he had thought often, awake at ungodly hours, with Hannibal on his mind. He had thought of their first morning after it all. He had thought of their life that no longer needed codes, pretense, acting, anger. He had thought of the first time he would reach out, in this new life, and find familiar heat against his fingers, familiar lips against his own, familiar voice saying -

“Will.”

Will didn’t remember getting to the shower either.

The sickening familiarity of this loss of time made him smile, the expression a grimace, a wild grin instead of something soft and nostalgic.

He ducked his head when he felt wet hair against his stomach, Hannibal leaning into him, pressing the heat of his pain against Will’s own. The hiss of water against the tub brought flashes of memory back to Will. The impromptu triage in the kitchen, morphine, the taste of Dolarhyde against his tongue as Will had pressed his mouth to Hannibal’s and _whimpered_ -

He winced, bent, curled bruised fingers around the shower head and lifted it again, casting water and steam against them both where they leaned on each other, trembling.

Hannibal had suffered more grievous wounds, ones that would need to be monitored, checked over, cleaned. He’d stitched up Will, stitched up himself - declaring dryly that he’d miss his appetite until his stomach healed - before entrusting himself to Will’s care.

As they had discussed.

Now, Will set a foot against the lip of the tub, balancing himself, bringing Hannibal closer against him in an awkward half-embrace that both sighed into.

The water slipped against skin, catching sweat and dirt and blood and viscera, washing it down the drain. Revealing behind it bruised skin, scrapes, ill-healed old scars, fine hair, birthmarks.

_“This is all I ever wanted for you, Will.”_

A rebirth. A trial by blood.

“For both of us,” he breathed, tilting his wrist, washing more gore away to reveal the man beneath. His monster that he lovingly washed clean.

Will’s free hand moved to Hannibal’s hair, careful to stroke, not tug, careful to cup his hand against his forehead as he sifted water through his hair, bringing gold up from beneath the filth that caked it. His heart swelled at the sight.

“Look at us,” he whispered, uncaring if Hannibal couldn’t hear, caring only that the words left his mouth, sacred in their manifestation. “As Eros and Thanatos, the love in me turned putrid by the selfishness of those who sought it, the death in you grown heavy with the weight of their demands.”

Hannibal made a sound, lifted an arm to curl between Will’s legs to spread blood against the small of his back. He bent his head to press his cheek to the thigh Will held aloft, resting against him in worship. Will didn’t bother to hide that shiver that shuddered through his body. Exhaustion, pain, the last lingering tendrils of adrenaline, and a love so powerful it threatened to tear his ribs asunder.

“Monsters,” Will told him, fondly. “Hunters. Beasts.”

“Will.”

The water washed Hannibal, slopping over the side of the tub and to the floor, painting watercolor against the tile when it mingled with the blood there.

“You’re beautiful,” Will told him, relishing the feeling of rough hands against his thighs, of wet lips too-hot against blooming bruises. He let his hand follow the water, guide it over thicker blood, harsh stitches that clasped beneath them crooked scars still-forming. “Remarkable.”

A word Hannibal had used, once, whispered against Will’s lips as a promise, a requirement. 

Hannibal gave voice now, as Will had then, a helpless thing that hooked sharp against the heartstrings and held.

Will swapped the shower head to the other hand, supporting Hannibal with the other as he set both feet into the tub again, lowered to his knees between Hannibal’s own.

He washed here, too, against the angry maw of the wound on his belly, over the thick hair caked in sticky blood on his chest, down between his legs. Moment by moment, Will brought his Hannibal back to him; back from death, back from the memory palace they had been inhabiting together, so long apart.

They had this home, now, together. Christened already in blood; blessed with it.

Will bent nearer and pressed his lips to Hannibal’s heartbeat, tasting it through his skin, moaning soft when heavy hands settled into his curls and held him there. He let the shower go when it was softly pried from his fingers, closed his eyes as water cascaded over his hair, into his eyes, into his mouth that he parted wider only to take more of Hannibal’s skin against his tongue.

He let himself be cleaned as he began the delicate process of claiming Hannibal as his own.

Taste by taste.

Touch by touch.

Breath by breath.

“Will.”

He went blindly, arching his neck when soft fingers tilted his chin, kissing Hannibal as though the world was ending.

In a way, there had been a sense of an ending.

Just not this world, not their world.

Never again.

Will opened his eyes to meet Hannibal’s, to see his blown pupils, the brown-turned-blood surrounding them. He loved him entirely. He would follow him to the edge of the earth, where there be dragons.

They had already defeated the worst of them.

“Stay with me,” Will whispered, stroking Hannibal’s face with weak fingers, drawing his thumb over swollen lips. “Just a little longer,”

The morphine was thick in their blood now, pulling eyelids low, lips slack, hearts slow.

Lethargy crept tantalizing through Will’s mind, and he reached to turn off the water, pressing his forehead to Hannibal’s chest as they just rested together; wet, reborn, alive.

There was no memory for either of them of moving from the bathroom to the bedroom just beyond. There was no memory beyond the gentle exploration of fingers and lips slipping against soaking skin, smearing lazy against silk bed sheets as covers were dragged atop them. No memory beyond the panted breaths and their sweet smell. No memory beyond sleepy pulses pressed wrist to wrist.

Will held his monster to him, curling against Hannibal’s back to hold him near, to hold him small, where any other time he was the protector, the stronger, the willing sacrifice. He folded their fingers together, clinging close, turned his nose into Hannibal’s hair and breathed him in, nuzzling to keep his scent against him.

It’s beautiful, he thought, this freedom.

_It’s beautiful._


End file.
